


The Mystery of the Copied Letter

by Eclectic_Goddess



Category: Being Human (UK), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Blackmail, Gen, M/M, Mystery, Pastiche, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-17 14:33:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eclectic_Goddess/pseuds/Eclectic_Goddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In my many years as Sherlock Holmes’ friend, I have often found myself engaged in affairs of the most spectacular and sensational nature.  I have written about many such incidents, and a fair number have made it into print.  Holmes himself alternately disdains and is bored by these stories of mine, but it is a rare occasion that leads him to expressly forbid me to put the details of a case to paper.  The following is one of those, and even as I write this account, I wonder why I am compelled to disobey him.  I know this writing must never been seen by the public, and yet I feel I must record this case, and Holmes’s involvement in it, among all others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I

 

            In my many years as Sherlock Holmes’ friend, I have often found myself engaged in affairs of the most spectacular and sensational nature.  I have written about many such incidents, and a fair number have made it into print.  Holmes himself alternately disdains and is bored by these stories of mine, but it is a rare occasion that leads him to expressly forbid me to put the details of a case to paper.  The following is one of those, and even as I write this account, I wonder why I am compelled to disobey him.  I know this writing must never been seen by the public, and yet I feel I must record this case, and Holmes’s involvement in it, among all others.

 

~

             It was a warm spring, and my dear wife Mary had gone off to visit an old school friend who’d just given birth to her first child.  My practice was light at that time of year, and there came a day when I found myself with a free afternoon.  Habit more than intent took me around to my old rooms at Baker Street.  I had not seen Holmes in several weeks, and there was no denying that I missed the companionship and intrigue that come so readily in his presence.  For his part, Holmes seemed glad to have me.  He had just concluded a simple theft case and confessed that he had been contemplating his small Moroccan box when I rang.

             He invited me to share his luncheon, and afterward we were both idly enjoying a smoke when the bell rang.  A casual observer might not have noticed any change in Holmes’s demeanor, but I could not mistake the shift in his attention from the end of his pipe to the faint voices that drifted up from the front door.  When footsteps sounded on the stairs, I had to smile at the glimmer in his half-lidded eyes.  As much as he enjoys my company, I cannot deny that he will always love his work more.

             I knew Holmes was already gathering information even as the footsteps came toward our door.  I tried to hear what he might, but my ear is not as keen as his, and it had been too long since I lived at Baker Street to recall the meaning of each individual creak of the floorboards in the hall.

             Neither of us, though, were surprised by the firm rapping at the door, or the page boy’s voice, calling, “Mr. Holmes, someone to see you.”

             Nothing of Holmes’s excitable nature showed as he languidly removed the pipe from his lips to reply, “Come in.”

             The page opened the door and stepped aside so that our visitor might enter.  The first thing that struck me was his youth.  He could be no more than twenty, smooth of face and very pale except for two hectic spots of color high on his cheeks.  He was handsome in a boyish way that I guessed would serve him well for many years, a small, straight nose and firm jaw framing a soft and expressive mouth.  His eyes were the same brilliant blue as the sky outside our windows.  The only features he possessed more spectacular than his eyes were his ears.  While not particularly large, they seemed to protrude at right angles from his head.

             Despite his youth, he was very well dressed and tidy.  He wore none of the modern frivolous fashions, but rather a conservative black jacket and waistcoat over gray trousers.  His shoes were shined, his hat freshly brushed, and I could not see a speck of mud anywhere on his person.  Everything he wore appeared well-made and expensive, but understated, right down to his plain silver watch chain.

             I took all this in within a matter of moments, but I knew my friend had taken in far more.

             The young looked nervously about the cluttered room, long, thin fingers straining not to wring the brim of his hat.  His eye finally settled on Holmes, and when he spoke, his voice wavered slightly.  “Mr. Holmes?”

             “Yes, that’s me.”

             “I am sorry to arrive at your door like this, Mr. Holmes.  I am in need of your particular assistance, and the matter is rather pressing.”

             “Indeed?”

             “Yes.  I have heard a good deal about you.  I’ve read many of the stories that Dr. Watson has published.”  At this he gave me a faint nod.  “You are also quite famous among my fellows at St. Bartholomew’s.”

             “Oh, you attend classes at St. Bartholomew’s?  Perhaps you know that I first made Dr. Watson’s acquaintance there.  I happened to be in the midst of a number of chemical experiments and found the labs of great use.”

             “And the students, or so I’ve heard.”

             Holmes chuckled lightly.  “Only when I had the antidote at hand, I assure you.  It was important to study the varying effects poisons have on the human body, you see.  Are you a medical student?”

             The young man looked down at his hat, shifting uneasily.  “Yes sir, I am.”

             “Very good.  A noble art, medicine.”

             It was not praise intended to be directed at me, but I still felt warmed by it and puffed more intently on my cigar.

             “But I’m sure you didn’t come here to talk of your future profession.  Exactly how may I be of assistance to a young Lord?”

             At those final words, our visitor started as if he’d been struck.  What little color had been in his cheeks drained away.  He seemed to sway, and I thought for a moment he would fall.  I rose to go to his aid, but Holmes was faster.  Taking him by the arm, he steered the young man toward the settee.

             “It’s a bit early, but I think a brandy may be in order.  Would you, Watson?”

             I went to pour the drink while Holmes got him settled.

             “You will forgive me, of course,” he said gently.  “I could not help but notice the smallest finger of your left hand, where it is clear that you ordinarily wear a fairly large and heavy ring.  Seeing from your manner and attire that you are not a young man prone to ostentation, I could easily surmise that it must be a family ring, removed in an attempt to conceal your identity for this meeting.”

             The young man’s hands were trembling as he accepted the brandy I presented him.

             “Your clothing also tells me that you are well-settled financially.  Your shoes are handmade, and your hat, understated as it is, comes from one of the finest haberdashers in London,” Holmes continued.  “Lastly, no one but a nobleman’s son would even for a moment be embarrassed to be studying medicine, as I note you were.”

             “Yes, yes.  I’m sorry.  I don’t know why…I am aware of your great deductive powers, of course, but I was…”  Our young visitor shook his head and took a sip of the brandy.

             “I can assure you that both I and my friend Dr. Watson uphold the highest level of confidentiality for all our clients, so there is no need to be concerned in that regard.”

              “Of course.  I do hope you understand…this is most…” The young man looked between us and took a deep breath.  “I am George Sands.  My father is Henry Russell Sands.”

             “Ah, the Earl of Tovey.  I am aware of him.  I should have known, really.”  Holmes nodded gravely, but I could detect a twinkle of amusement in his eye as he returned to his chair and took up his pipe once more.  “The ears.  Very distinctive.”

             I forced myself not to smile as the young man lifted an uncertain hand to his ear.

             “Regardless, it is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Sands.”

             “Please…please…I prefer not to use any title.  When I was young, my father insisted I go to public school, and I learned early exactly what sort of damage a title can do.  At the hospital, I go by Mr. Sands, or just George.”

             “Mr. Sands, then.  I must ask again, how may I be of assistance?”

             The young man took another swallow of his brandy and seemed to steady himself.  Some color was returning to his face, though his hands were still trembling where he wrapped them around the glass.  He could not seem to meet Holmes’s keen eyes, and looked at me instead.

             “I am being blackmailed.  Or, rather, I am being threatened with blackmail.”

             “Ah…” Holmes leaned back, folding his long legs.  “Please do explain.”

             He nodded, taking a deep breath.  “I received a letter almost a month ago, making threats against me unless I delivered a sizable sum in an unmarked package to a boarding house near the dockyards.  I did not do as the letter commanded.  I suppose I thought…I didn’t know what to think, really.  A fortnight ago, I received another, more specific letter.  Again, I did not respond.  It is not because I don’t have the money.  I do.  I have a significant allowance, and my lifestyle is simple, so I have saved a great deal.  But I’ve heard how these people work, Mr. Holmes, and even if I paid them this time, there would be no guarantee that they would not simply ask for more, or worse…”

             Swallowing the last of the brandy, our visitor looked for a place to put down the glass amid our cluttered tables, and I took it from him.  He gave me a look of such unwarranted gratitude that it pained me.

             “Two days ago, I received a third letter,” he said.  “This letter stated that the price had indeed gone up, and it contained proof that those responsible are more than capable of carrying out that which they threaten.”

             “What sort of proof?” Holmes asked.

             “A personal letter.  A copy of a letter, anyway.  Enough to know that they have the original.”

             “A letter written by you?”

             Mr. Sands nodded, reaching into his jacket.  From an inner pocket, he withdrew a small packet of envelopes.  He seemed about to say something, but faltered.  The despair in his expression was striking.  It was difficult to imagine what this young gentleman might have done that was worthy of blackmail, but clearly it was a serious matter.

             “Mr. Holmes,” The young man’s voice broke, and he paused before continuing.  “I will understand if, after reading these, you no longer wish to be involved.  I have no desire to see anyone else brought low by my…situation.  But I must plead again for your promise of discretion.”

             “You have it, Mr. Sands.”

             Rising, he put the envelopes into Holmes’s hand.  He turned away from us then, going to the windows.  There he stood stiffly, looking out at the sunny spring afternoon as though it was winter’s darkest night.

             I returned to my chair and gave Holmes my full attention.  He examined each letter carefully, beginning with the envelopes.  As he began to read the contents, I watched the minute changes in his expression.  His dark brows drew closer together, and his mouth tightened.  When he reached the final page of the third envelope, he seemed to catch his breath.  He cast a glance toward the young man standing at our windows, then turned to look at me.

             I am quite accustomed to Holmes allowing me to read letters and telegrams related to his cases, but now he seemed to hesitate.  He met my gaze for a moment before holding out the page.  When I took it, he nodded very seriously, then picked up his pipe once more and leaned back into his chair.

             The printing on the page was blocky and crude, marred by smudged ink, but the words themselves were something else entirely.

 

_Dearest Mitchell,_

_I left your company not an hour ago, and already I am longing to be with you once more.  How will I endure your absence for three months?  Even though you have not yet gone, I already pine for you, my darling, and pray a time will come when nothing shall separate us, even for an hour._

_Three months!  It seems an eternity to me.  I cannot imagine you so far away for so long, so instead I will imagine that you are here with me still.  I close my eyes, and I can almost feel the brush of your fingers through my hair, and the warmth of your breath on my cheek.  I have still the handkerchief you gave me the first night we met, and when I press it to my lips, I imagine that I can…_

 

             The letter ended there, abruptly, and I was grateful.  An uncomfortable heat had risen into my face.  Folding the paper once more, I handed it back to Holmes.  He was watching me intently though his pipe smoke.  There was something I struggled to read in his gaze, but before I could decipher it, he turned toward our visitor.

            “Mr. Sands…George, please.  Come and sit down.”

            The young man obeyed.  His shoulders were still rigid, and he was fingering his pocket watch.  He met Holmes’s eyes with caution, as though afraid of what he might find there.

            “You can see my position, sir.  If I do not pay, and this…person…does as he threatens, it is not just my reputation that I have to fear for.  I will lose everything.  My father would be forced to cut me off.  Even if I can find the money to pay my tuition, it is likely that the hospital would no longer allow me to attend classes.  I will never become a doctor.  I could even face criminal charges, and be sent to prison.”

            “I am inclined to help you in any way that I can,” Holmes told him.  “But I require a good deal more information.  Are you willing to tell us all, and answer my questions?”

            Mr. Sands’ head jerked in something like a nod.  “Yes, yes.  Whatever you need to know.”

            “Excellent.  To begin, am I correct in supposing that one of your concerns is that it is this Mitchell to whom you write so eloquently who is behind this blackmail attempt?”

            The sorrow which creased the young man’s face could not be mistaken.  His voice emerged as a mere whisper.  “Yes.”

            “Then that is where we begin.  Tell us exactly how and when you met him.”

TBC... 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should mention that the crossover aspect of this story is my use of the characters from Being Human. There will not be any supernatural elements.

II

 

            “I had been in London for a little over a year, and most of that time was taken up by my studies.  I have never been of a particularly social nature.  I prefer books to parties.  Then, last year, I happened to come across an old school acquaintance by the name of William Kroft.  We had dinner a few times, at his insistence, and it was at one of those dinners that he mentioned to me a particular private club.  A gentlemen’s club.”  Mr. Sands gave us a look that pled not to have to elaborate.

            Ever immune to the discomforts of others, Holmes said, “I take it this club is intended for members of a certain inclination.”

            “Yes.”

            “And William Kroft was aware of your inclinations?”

            “We were at school together,” he said, as if that answered all.

            “Were you close?”

            “No.  To be honest, I was as without friends at school as I am now.”  The young man shrugged.  “But that was a long time ago.  What does the unkindness of children really mean, once we’ve grown up?”

            “Very well, continue.”

            “One night he called on me and suggested I come along with him to the club.  I wasn’t sure I wanted to go, to be honest, but he talked to me into it.  As I said, it is quite private.  The club itself occupies the space beneath a professional building.  Hidden behind the front steps there is a smaller door, like a service entrance.  There is no sign or plaque or number.  I was only allowed to enter in the company of another member for my first three visits.  After that, I became a member myself, though I don’t know how they keep track.  No one there has ever asked my name, and I have never given it.  There is an old butler who attends the door, and it seems he simply knows everyone at a glance.  The members are made up of all sorts.  Tradesmen, soldiers, a nobleman or two.”  At this he gave us the faintest smile.  “It was that very first night that I met Mitchell.”

            “Did this Mr. Kroft introduce you?”

            “No, I don’t think they knew each other.  I met Mitchell when I went to the bar.  My nerves were getting to me by then, being in such an illicit place, surrounded by…well, in my nervousness, I dropped my glass and spilled wine all across the bar.  Mitchell was there, getting a drink of his own.  He avoided being splattered with wine himself, but took the handkerchief from his sleeve to help me blot the worst of it from my cuffs.  We passed the rest of the evening in conversation, despite William’s efforts to introduce me to what he deemed ‘more suitable’ gentlemen.  At the end of the night, we agreed to meet there again a few days later.”

            “How long ago was that, precisely?”

            “Six months.  It was just before the holidays, because I had decided to stay in London rather than travel home, and Mitchell and I spent much of the time together.”

            “And what can you tell me about him?”

            Something warm came into his expression, and he looked suddenly shy.  His memories must have been good indeed to take the edge off the horror of his current situation.

            “Mitchell’s full name is John Mitchell Turner.  He is older than me, nearly thirty, but he has an easy manner, and he is quick to laugh.  He is tall and spare, with dark eyes and dark hair that he wears combed back.  He is originally from Dublin, but he has travelled the world.  He deals in artifacts from Africa and India and the Mid-East.  His business has taken him many dangerous places, and he has scars all about his person from his adventures.”

            Mr. Sands stopped talking abruptly, his face flushed at the admittance that he was aware of the state of this Mitchell’s person.

            “And now, does he reside here in London?”

            “Y-yes.”  He cleared his throat.  “He rents rooms not far from the train station.  They are not extravagant, but the house is a good one, and he keeps them very tidy.  He may not be of noble birth, but he is in every other way a gentleman, I assure you.”

            “I have no doubt.  Did you tell Mitchell about the blackmail threats you had received?”

            “No.  I don’t know why.  I suppose I thought to spare him.  He is not the sort of man who tolerates the worst parts of our society lightly.  He would have been outraged, and he would have wanted to help, but I don’t see how he could have.”

            “And this letter,” Holmes held up the final sheet.  “You wrote it to him?”

            “Yes.”

            “When?”

            “Not even a week ago.”

            “Did you put it in the post?”

            The young man looked alarmed.  “No!  My Lord, no.  I gave it directly to him while we were at dinner.  He had to go away, for his business, and he asked for something to remember me by.  I didn’t even put it in an envelope.  I just tied it with a bit of string.  Mitchell said that he would keep it always in an inner pocket of his jacket, close to his heart.”

            At that sentimentality, his face flamed further, but Holmes looked all the more serious.  “Did you sign the letter?”

            “Yes.”

            “With your full name?”

            “No, I just signed it George.”

            “What sort of paper was it written on?”

            “Pages from my journal.”  Mr. Sands drew a leather-bound notebook roughly the size of his hand from one pocket.  “Is that important?  I use this primarily to keep notes for my studies.  I carry it everywhere with me.  It is never unattended.”

            “It is far too early to say what might be important.  May I see your journal?  Only for a moment, I assure you.”

            The young man handed it over with far less hesitation than he had first given Holmes the letters.  “There is something more, I’m afraid.  I gave the letter to Mitchell last Tuesday evening, because he was due to catch a train to Bristol early the next morning.  After I received this last threat, I made inquires to the shipyard there via telegram.  Mitchell did not tell me the name of the ship on which he was travelling, or the route it might take, and I hoped to learn what port his ship might be making for on the continent.  I thought to send him a telegram, though I’m not sure what I would have said.  Instead, I learned that there was no passenger named Turner on any ships that sailed on Wednesday.”

            Holmes looked up from the journal, steely eyes glinting, and asked, “Are you sure of that?”

            “I used all my admittedly meager influence and a fair amount of currency being sure.”

            “And you’re certain he was to sail from Bristol on Wednesday?”

            “He said he was.  He said he booked the very last train that would get him to Bristol in time to catch his ship.  On Tuesday evening, his bags were packed, and I heard him telling his landlord that he would not need breakfast the next morning, as he planned to leave early.  You may be wondering, Mr. Holmes, but I also inquired about any passenger that might have left in the days immediately following.  There was no John Mitchell Turner.”

            “Is it possible that he might have travelled under another name?”

            “It’s possible, but I can’t imagine why he would need to.”  He accepted the journal that Holmes held out, his long fingers clutching it tightly.  “I realize that it is also possible that Mitchell lied to me, or has been lying to me.  I trusted him, Mr. Holmes, perhaps more than I should have.  He never gave me any reason not to.”

            The young man’s chin trembled, and I feared for a moment that he would begin to weep, but he mastered himself.  Putting away his journal, he straightened purposely.  “Whatever you might learn, Mr. Holmes, I should hear of it.  Please do not think to spare me.”

            “As you wish.”  Holmes rose to tap his cold pipe against the fireplace grate.  “For now, do nothing.  The final letter gave you a week to reply, which leaves me with three days.  I will make the best use of them, I assure you.  If you will leave your card, and Mr. Turner’s address, I will contact you as soon as I have something definite to share.”

            With gratitude distinctly tempered by grief, George Sands excused himself from our presence.  Holmes went to the windows to watch him leave.  Chin sunk upon his chest, he did not move for several minutes.  Time has acclimated me to my friend’s silences, and I could do no more than wait.  I took up the rest of the letters which Mr. Sands had left with us, but found myself unable to read them.

            Through our years together, there have been some times when I expressed my disapproval of Holmes’s wilder plans, but my trust in him is complete.  I’m proud to say that I have never failed him, and have always been ready to assist him in any way he needed me.  At his side, I have faced thieves, murderers, and madmen without fear.

            How strange then, you must imagine, was it to find myself so unsure in the face of mere case of blackmail.

            “I’m afraid I must abandon our plans for an idle afternoon, my dear Watson,” Holmes said, suddenly in motion once more.  Pulling on a jacket, he began sifting through the drawers of his desk.  “I will likely not be available for dinner.  Time is short, you understand, and I must make some inquiries right away.”

            “Of course.”  Returning the letters to him, I rose and went to collect my own jacket.

            “You needn’t go, Doctor.  Linger here as long as it suits you.  After all, this was once your home as much as it is still mine.”  Seizing upon a telegram form, he jotted a quick message.  “In fact, I cannot promise much excitement, but you are welcome to come along with me, if you like.  I’m always grateful for your company.”

            “No, no.  There are a few patients I really should drop in on this afternoon.  I’ll just be off to it.”

            I turned away from him then, taking up my walking stick.  I could not face him.  Never before had I lied to him. What was the point, after all?  The greatest actor in the world could make him believe a lie, maybe, but not a retired Army surgeon whose every thought Holmes could read by the movements of his eyebrows.

            Indeed, at the door I glanced back and found him standing still at his desk.  His eyes were dark, the corners of his mouth turned down.  I expected a scathing retort, but he only said, “Very well, Watson.  Will you be home tomorrow evening?  Should I have need of you?”

            I nodded quickly, not trusting myself with words, and left him looking after me.

 

To be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay. I planned to post this chapter before I went out of town, but forgot. I will step it up for the following chapters to make up for it.
> 
> Thank you to all those who have read and left their feedback. It's much appreciated.

III

 

            The rest of the day I passed in solitude at my own home.  I attempted to occupy myself with mundane tasks, reading correspondence, organizing my recent notes, reviewing an article theorizing the potential advantages of antisepsis in surgery.  I tried not to think about Holmes or Lord George Sands or Mr. John Mitchell Turner, but my mind refused to cooperate.  Despite having only read it once, the words of Lord Sands’ letter simply would not leave me in peace.

            _I close my eyes and I can almost feel the brush of your fingers through my hair…_

            The next day I rose late, having slept badly.  I spent the afternoon calling on patients, and had a late luncheon at my club between appointments.  With the last completed, I walked to the park and passed an hour trying to enjoy the warm sunshine.  I heard nothing from Holmes, but I knew that my absence would not prevent him from finding me if he chose to.

            When I returned home, I was unable to distract myself amid books or papers.  I declined dinner and sent my maid home early.  I thought to write to Mary, but again, that letter intruded upon my thoughts.  I am no poet, and anything I might write to her seemed like a pale imitation of the passion I had found within.  Passion shunned by society, even forbidden by law, but undeniable.

            _Even though you have not yet gone, I already pine for you, my darling, and pray a time will come when nothing shall separate us, even for an hour._

            I could not escape the words, and I would not cease my agonies over their…familiarity.

            It was late when the bell rang.  I was still dressed, having given no thoughts to sleep.  Emerging from my study, I went down to answer the door myself.  There could be no doubt as to who might come calling at that hour, but still I was taken aback when Holmes swept into my hall.

            I have seen Holmes in many of the disguises he uses in his work.  With adjustments to his clothing and manners, he is capable of transforming himself from a frail beggar to rough and mean dock worker to a harmless old woman.  Never before, though, had I seen him as I did that evening, and it shocked me.

            Holmes was dressed in a tuxedo, complete with white tie and long jacket.  There was pale carnation tucked into his lapel.  He pulled off a very stylish top hat as he entered and I saw that his hair had been carefully combed back from his face, the waves of it oiled so that it gleamed in the lamplight.  Standing there, he began to tug off white gloves, which fit his long hands so perfectly that they must have been made especially for him.

            His eyes were sparkling when finally I met them, and there again, I found myself surprised.  Somehow, the gray in them had been turned to pure silver, framed by lashes so thick and dark that they seemed impossible.  They stood in stark contrast to his pale, smooth face, as did his lips, fuller and redder than I have ever seen them.

            “My God, Holmes…are you wearing powder?”

            “I am.”  There was a small looking glass over the table in the hall, and Holmes went to it.  “A modest amount.  I must say that the effects are rather dramatic.  I may have overdone the lip rouge.”

             “Did you walk here, looking like that?”

            Holmes pursed his painted lips in disapproval, and I felt faint for a moment at the effect.  “Of course not.  I took a cab.  It’s waiting outside still.  I only have a few minutes, and then I must go and collect George.”

            “George…Do not tell me that you are going to that club?”

            “Of course I am.  I have had a very productive day, and I intend to have a productive evening.  I can only enter the club with a member, and George agreed to see me in the door.”  Holmes took a silk handkerchief from one pocket and blotted it against his lips.  “I have been to the train station, Watson, and to Mr. Turner’s rooms.  It was a most enlightening experience.  Would it surprise you to learn that Mr. Turner owns a revolver, not unlike your own?”

            “It would not.”

            Holmes beamed at me.  “Of course not.  I found a small box for it in his rooms, but the weapon itself was absent.  This Mr. Turner is developing into a most interesting fellow.  As to Bristol, I exchanged telegrams with a very reliable acquaintance at the port there.  As George stated, there is no record of a John Mitchell Turner in any of the ships’ passenger manifests for last Wednesday.  In fact, there is no record of him on any ship for all of the last week.”

            “But, Holmes, have you considered-” Holmes raised a hand to stop me.

            “I know what you are about to suggest, my dear Watson, and of course I have considered it.  But I can say no more on the matter, for now.  I am still in need of several important facts before I can begin to unravel this tale.  I must admit that my natural abhorrence for blackmail in all its forms first induced me to take this case, but it is becoming quite the mystery, isn’t it?”

            I could hardly disagree.

            “Tonight, I shall see what I can learn at this club,” Holmes said, rubbing his hands together happily.  “It will be a most engaging experience, I should think.  But I have need of you as well, Watson.  Tomorrow, if you are free in the morning.”

            “No.”

            “You’re not free in the morning?”

            “No, I am, but…I cannot help you.”

            Holmes appeared struck dumb for a moment, staring at me.  It might have been the first time in our acquaintance that I have ever shocked him.  For the all the times he has shocked me, I might have taken more pleasure in it had my stomach not been twisting with dread.

            “Cannot?  Will not, you mean?”

            I took a deep breath.  For most of my acquaintance with Holmes, I have been happy to follow his lead.  Now, I could not.  “This is a mistake, Holmes.  I will take no part it.”

            “Watson, I don’t understand you…”

            “I think you do,” I said, which as much firmness as I could muster.

            Holmes’ glinting eyes narrowed.  “Perhaps you should speak more plainly.”

            He was being purposely difficult now, I could tell.  If there is one person indisputably more stubborn than myself, it is Holmes.  I knew that the argument I was about to put before him was pointless, but still I took a breath to steady myself.

            “You would have me speak plainly?  Then I will.  What is happening to George Sands is terrible.  He seems like a kind, intelligent young man, with a promising future.  The idea that such a future might be brought so easily to ruin is truly saddening.  But he has only himself to blame…”

            “Really, now, Watson, as a medical man, you should know better.”

            “I am not speaking of Mr. Sands’…condition.  I am speaking of his actions.  Going to that club, associating with those people.  He was taking a grave risk, Holmes, and you know it as well as I.  He himself admits that it’s possible that this Mr. Turner might have lied to him, something I think we both know is true.”  I waited a moment for Holmes to confirm what I’d said, but he remained silent, keen eyes studying me.  “To make matters worse, Mr. Sands continued to associate with Mr. Turner after the first threat of blackmail, and did not deign to tell him of it.  If his own public disgrace was not enough to dissuade Mr. Sands, then perhaps he might have give some thought to the person he claims to have cared for.”

            “There are some things more important than society’s dim notions of _propriety_.”

            “There is also the law.”

            “The law!”  Holmes scoffed.  “When have I ever concerned myself with the law?  It is justice that interests me.  The truth.”

            “The truth.”  I felt weary and sick, but I could not restrain myself.  “Ask yourself, Holmes, who the truth with serve in this matter.  Do not forget that you have long tasked me with recording your failures as well as your successes.  Should you fail to stop this blackmailer, and should they make good on their threats, the truth will ruin all involved.  Including you.  You are better known than you might think, and you have spent the last two days making inquiries on George’s behalf.  Now you are going to that…that place, with him.  Word will spread.  People will know, and they assume the worst.”

            There was a faint flush in Holmes’s cheeks when I stopped speaking, but otherwise his expression was cold, blank.  Drawing himself up, he carefully tucked his handkerchief away.  “Do you think I care what people may think of me?”

            “I know that you don’t.  That is my concern.  People already talk, Holmes.  You don’t hear them because you chose not to.  When they are not marveling at your intellect, they are whisper and wonder.  You are not married.  You shun polite society.  They look to me for explanations...”

            “Ah, so it is not really my reputation that concerns you.  It is yours!”  Holmes began to pull on his gloves.  “Doctor John Watson, retired army surgeon, husband and respectable member of society.”

            “Holmes, really.”

            “I expected better of you, Watson.”

            I had no response for that, perhaps because I expected better of myself, too.  “Please listen to me, Holmes.  Be angry with me if you must, but listen.”

            Finishing with his gloves, he met my eyes once more.  I wanted to read the intense feeling I found there, but I could not.  I was afraid, but having gone that far, it was against my nature to retreat.

            “Holmes, I am your friend.  I pray that you will always count me so, for nothing shall ever diminish my esteem for you.  My life is infinitely improved for having you in it.”  I had to pause there to master my emotions.  “I am being selfish, because I could not bear to lose you, to lose everything we have shared.  If this case goes wrong, that is exactly what will happen.”

            For several long seconds, Holmes continued to study me, and I waited.  When he finally moved to pick up his hat once more, I expected him to simply walk out.

            Instead, he said, “As we have abandoned reason for sentimentality, may I explain why I am unwilling to drop this case?”

            “Of course.”

            “As I’m sure you know, I observed a number of things about George as soon as he entered our…my rooms.  During our short meeting with him, I had the opportunity to deduce rather more about him than strictly necessary for the solution of this mystery.”  Holmes brushed an invisible bit of dust from his hat.  “George has no siblings and little contact with his father.  Examining his journal, I discovered the handwriting of someone who is organized, careful, and while not lacking in confidence, distinctly mild in demeanor.  You will recall that he told us that, since his arrival in London, he had spent most of his time in study, and did not socialize.  I have concluded that, realizing his inversion at a young age and understanding the inherent risks of such a condition, George had resigned himself to a life of solitude.

             “Then came Mr. Turner.  While George did not seek out his companionship, he found it pleasant nonetheless.  Perhaps, in the beginning, he expected that it would be only a passing diversion.  But over time, he has come to trust in and rely upon Mr. Turner.  He began to imagine that, despite society’s strident objections to such a pairing, they might actually make some kind of life together.  He could finally imagine what it might be like _not_ to be alone.  Then these letters began to arrive, the last implicating the very person he had become so attached to.  Consider, Watson, what it might be like to feel that the only person in the world with whom you have a real connection is being pulled away from you.”

            I was stricken.  I may not possess Holmes’s intellectual talents, but I am no fool.  I knew that we were no longer speaking of George Sands and John Mitchell Turner.

            “As it stands, I don’t believe that Mr. Turner has anything to do with this blackmail.  In fact, if my deductions are correct, I think Mr. Turner will prove to have been an honorable and brave gentleman.”  Holmes turned toward the door then, settling his hat once more.  “But I require more data, Watson.  I must be going.  I have a busy night ahead of me, and a busy day tomorrow.”

            “Holmes.”

            He stopped, but didn’t turn to face me.

            “What were you going to ask of me?”

            “Do not trouble yourself, doctor.”

            “I want to help.”

            Holmes seemed to turn his head to look back at me, but the shadows in the hall hid his expression.  We passed a long moment in silence, then he nodded.

            “I do hope that you can, Watson.  I hope it’s not too late.”

 

To be continued...


	4. Chapter 4

IV

 

            The next morning, I rose early and did not linger over my eggs or toast.  Sleep had once again come troubled and sporadic the night before.  I’d awakened with an ache in my chest that had little to do with any wounds I brought back from the war.  I was eager to get out of the house, to get moving.  It was a beautiful morning, and I considered walking, but I remembered Holmes’s last words to me, and hailed a cab instead.

            The task Holmes had set for me was not an easy one, but I am proud to say that I performed it admirably.  If I perhaps bent the truth a time or two, or pressed a coin into undeserving hands, it was nothing that he would find fault with.  Just after noon, I climbed the stairs to my old rooms at Baker Street to find Holmes and Mr. Sands there, waiting.

            “Ah, Dr. Watson.  I was just telling Mr. Sands of your offer to assist with the case.”  Holmes’ expression was as inscrutable as ever, betraying nothing of our conversation the night before.  “Have you been successful?”

            “I have.”

            He studied me for a moment longer, silently asking a dozen more questions.  I could only nod, but Holmes read from it what he wanted to know.  He leapt from the chair, rubbing his long hands together.

            “Excellent.  Let’s not waste any time, then.  George, if you will come along.”

            The three of us climbed into the cab I’d kept waiting and were off.  I sat beside Mr. Sands so that we were both facing Holmes.  Reclining comfortably, he lit a cigarette and began to explain.

            “You see, George, there were several intriguing aspects to your situation.  The blackmail being the most urgent of our concerns, I began by making some discreet inquiries at the boarding house to which you have been instructed to deliver payment.  Information I gathered there led me to a public house, and then to a small clothier, and then to a different boarding house altogether.  The person who has instigated these loathsome proceedings has been very careful, but they made a few key mistakes.”

            Holmes drew the bundle of letters Mr. Sands had given him from a pocket.  “As you can plainly see, these letters have been treated quite badly.  They are dirty, the paper crumpled and the ink smudged.  I do not for a moment believe that was due to any treatment at your hands, George.  Even the handwriting and language are crude.  The person preparing these letters wanted us to believe that they were written by someone of little refinement or education.  But if we look closely at the paper, and the ink itself, we discover that it is of very good quality.  The pen that produced this writing was well made, with a fine tip.

            “It is meaningful that these letters did not begin arriving until after your first visit to the club.  Either your blackmailer was unaware of you before you began to attend, or they were waiting for you to place yourself in a more compromising situation so as to gain adequate leverage over you.  It strikes me more likely to be the latter.  Having attended the club with you last night, I saw the concerted efforts made for privacy, and, as you yourself said, you went to no great length to socialize with the members aside from your Mr. Turner.  I had the opportunity to speak with the club’s manager, and he was quite disturbed to learn that threats of exposure had been made.  It seems that they monitor the behavior of the members quite closely, and there have been other recent attempts at blackmail.

            “Tell me, George.  Since the receipt of the first letter, have you seen much of your old schoolmate, William Kroft?”

            Mr. Sands gasped.  “No…no, but I haven’t seen anyone, really…”

            “I asked the manager about him, and it seems that Mr. Kroft himself is new to the club, and the member who first introduced him has been expelled for inappropriately propositioning other members.  Offering his ‘attentions’, for a fee.”

            Mr. Sands had not recovered from his shock to reply, and Holmes did not look at me.  I was grateful, for my face was burning.  Suddenly the interior of the cab seemed too close and confined.

            “You mentioned that the night you met Mitchell, Mr. Kroft attempted to introduce you to more suitable gentlemen.  I’d wager that this man was among them.”  Holmes handed the bundle of letters back to Mr. Sands.  “Not everyone outgrows of the unkindness of childhood, I’m afraid.  I expect that his happiness at seeing you again, a young man he knew to be both vulnerable and wealthy, had less to do with the joy of seeing an old school chum and more to do with a considerable amount of gambling debt.”

            “He planned to blackmail me from the beginning.”

            “Yes.”

            Mr. Sands crumpled the envelopes between his hands, a flash of temper bringing fresh color into his pale cheeks.  He looked as though he wanted to rend the paper into small pieces there and then.

            Despite appearing to take no notice of anything beyond the end of his cigarette, Holmes said, “Don’t.  Take them home and burn them properly.  Be sure nothing remains, and then you may be able to finally put this behind you.”

            “What of Kroft?  Will he not still demand his payment?”

            “Oh, you needn’t worry about him.  Leave that to me.”

            Mr. Sands looked at me, but I could tell him nothing.  Never before had I understood the workings of my own friend’s mind less.  He looked at the creased envelopes in his hands once more.  A fresh shadow passed over his face.

            “But…my letter to Mitchell.  How did he…”

            “Ah, yes, we come at last to Mr. Turner.  In good time, too.  It seems we have arrived.”

            Indeed, we had.  As soon as the cab had come to a stop, we stepped out.  George alighted last, which was fortunate.  His eyes were drawn immediately to the hospital before us, and he staggered as though struck.  I caught his elbow, and he looked at me in terror.

            “It’s all right,” I told him firmly.  “Steady.”

            “Mitchell…is he here?”

            “Yes,” Holmes answered for me.  “Last night I visited the good doctor before I came to collect you, and asked for his assistance.  If I’m not wrong, he has searched every hospital in London today, in the hopes of finding your Mr. Turner.  We can count ourselves lucky that he met with success before dinner.”

            Mr. Sands did not look as though he counted himself lucky.

            “Will you lead on, Watson?”

            Lead on I did.  As we made our way into the building, Holmes took Mr. Sands by the arm and drew him close.  The hospital was blessedly quiet.  The sister at the front desk looked up as we approached, but recognized me from earlier that day and nodded us past.

            Behind me, I heard Holmes saying, “The evening after you came to us, I visited Mr. Turner’s rooms.  I discovered a number of interesting things, including that he had not taken his luggage with him.  Strange, for a businessman going on a long journey.  His landlord later confirmed that he left Wednesday morning with only a small bag, and that he walked to the train station.  Yesterday morning, I ventured out early and made the voyage from his rooms to the station, just as he would have done.

            “The only person I came upon was a police constable, whiling away the last hours of his shift.  I shared a cigar with him and remarked on the peacefulness of the morning and he told me an extraordinary tale.  It seems last Wednesday morning, the quiet was disturbed by an incident of robbery.  The constable heard the sound of a gunshot and followed the noise to what appeared to be a small group of thugs, rifling the pockets of a man on the ground.  Being a typical specimen of police practicality, he blew his whistle immediately, and the gang fled unaprehended, leaving their victim behind.”  Holmes shook his head in tired dismay. 

            “Mitchell,” Mr. Sands guessed, his voice shaking.

            “Indeed.  The incident was witnessed by a lady’s maid, whose window looked over the street.  It seems that the men had accosted an elderly gentleman when Mr. Turner happened upon them and came to his aid.  The gang turned on him.  At some point, he drew a revolver and fired.  He was then struck from behind and fell, and the gang was in the process of searching his person when the constable arrived to disperse them.  They left very little behind, I’m afraid, and it was from the quality of his clothing alone that the constable guessed that Mr. Turner was a person of some means.  He called for an ambulance, took the maid’s statement, and at that washed his hands of the entire matter.”

            We’d climbed to the third floor by the time Holmes finished his narrative.  I led them to a room halfway down the hall and stopped there to face Mr. Sands.  He was pale, a tight line of worry drawing his brows together, but seemed calm enough.

            “They have taken very good care of him, but he suffered a blow to the head.  I spoke with his doctor this morning, and he told me that he is making slow but steady recovery.  When he is awake, he is often confused, as can happen with this sort of injury.”

            “Yes, yes, I know…”

            “I’m sure that he would have made some effort to contact you, if he was well enough.”

            “Are you certain?” George asked me.  “That this is Mitchell?”

            I glanced at Holmes then and he merely lifted his eyebrows.  It may have been a sign of his trust in me that he had not asked that question himself, or he may have simply been so confident in his theories that I could not be mistaken.

            “I am sure.” From my pocket, I drew out a folded bundle of pages.  “As Holmes said, his attackers left almost nothing behind, but he still held this in his hand.  It is the rest of your letter to him.  Only the first page is missing.”

            Holmes looked delighted.  “Excellent!  Just as I predicted.  You may recall, George, that I took a moment to observe your journal when you first came to us.  I was looking to see not only the size of the paper, but also the size and style of your writing.  It was then easy for me to determine that the portion of the letter which had been copied could only be the first page.  Exactly the first page.  That made no sense.  If a blackmailer wished to prove that he had possession of such a dangerous letter, why would he not make use of the most damning part, your signature?  Simply because he did not have it.

            “I drew from that the conclusion that Mitchell had likely retained the rest of the letter, and once I learned of the unfortunate incident near the station, I also suspected that it might be the only means a hospital might have of identifying the man.  I suggested to Watson that he inquire about a man, matching the description you gave us, brought in on Wednesday morning, possibly under the name of George.”

            Holmes turned to me, and I nodded.  “They assumed, as you thought they might, that Mr. Turner himself wrote the letter, and was carrying it to his…intended.”

            “You see, George,” Holmes explained.  “That robbery was more than merely bad luck.  Having found you distracted from the charms of his accomplice, Mr. Kroft needed another way to entrap you.  He’s likely been watching you and Mr. Turner for most of these last six months, waiting for his chance.  You said that you gave Mr. Turner the letter while at dinner, and I would guess that that you spoke of Mr. Turner’s early departure for the train station during the same meal.  What’s more, Mr. Turner promised to carry it in his inside pocket, telling those interested exactly where to find the letter.  The old gentleman whose rescue he came to was a mere ruse, a way to draw him in and put him off his guard.  Perhaps they thought Mr. Turner would be an easy target, though it seemed he proved otherwise.”

            Mr. Sands took the pages from me with shaking hands.  He began to open them, then stopped and tucked them into a pocket.  “I would like to see him now.”

            Mr. Turner had been placed in a private room.  There was a nurse hovering at his bedside, but she removed herself quickly when I informed her that we were there to examine the patient.  It was only after she had gone that Mr. Sands moved cautiously toward the bed.  Perching carefully beside Mr. Turner, he went through the motions of checking his pulse, then examined the wounds on his hands and the bandage that went around his head.  Finally, he let out a deep breath that I hadn’t realized he was holding and allowed his hand to rest on Mr. Turner’s chest.

            “Hello, Mitchell,” he whispered.  “It’s George.  I’m here.”

            Standing back, I was torn between the desire to grant the privacy that such a moment warranted and a sort of shameful curiosity.  Upon my discovery of Mr. Turner earlier in the day, I had been struck by the contrast between he and Mr. Sands.  Where Holmes’s client possessed certain charming boyish qualities, Mr. Turner was distinctly of the more masculine, rugged sort.

            Even in this state, there was no denying he was handsome.  His features were strong and defined, with an aristocratic nose and a generous mouth.  He had the coloring of someone who had spent much of his life outdoors, though the paleness of his current condition only accentuated the dark luster of his curling black hair and the lines of his high, arching brows.  During my earlier examination, I had noticed the broadness of his shoulders, the lean musculature of his arms, and more scars than one generally finds on a business man.

            One high on his left arm, the thin slash of a knife.  Another knife wound on his lower right abdomen.  A distinct round indentation just above his right knee that could only have been caused by a bullet.  Finally, faint almost to the point of invisibility, a series of vertical lines across his upper back.  I identified those from my time in India, where I saw far too many men flogged at the post for what seemed minor indiscretions.

            I turned away to find Holmes rifling through the small trunk containing Mr. Turner’s clothing.  He pursued a methodical examination of each article, seemingly oblivious to the tender reunion that he himself had made possible.  His quick hands explored pockets, seams, the cuffs of the shirt and waistband of the trousers.  He drew out last a long, dark jacket, frowning at it before beginning his search once more.

            “Why did he lie to me?”

            George sat still gazing down into Mr. Turner’s drawn face.  He did not look at either Holmes or I.  “He was as much a victim in this blackmail as I was, but he still lied to me.  About the ship, in Bristol.”

            “If I had to wager, I’d say it was because of this,” Holmes replied.

            Both of us turned in time to see him tear open a seam of Mr. Turner’s jacket and draw a small, sealed packet from within.  He was nearly glowing with triumph as he held it up.

            “What is that?”

            “Well, one can’t be sure without opening it, but I’d wager a guess that these are Mr. Turner’s orders.”

 

To be continued...


	5. Chapter 5

 

V

            “Orders?”

            “Indeed.  Though he had no part in this blackmail attempt, I’m afraid that Mr. Turner was keeping a secret from you.”  Holmes gave me an appraising look as he approached the bed.  “You have guessed it, of course, Watson.”

            “I could hardly fail to,” I said.  “Mr. Turner’s travels…India, Egypt.  Also, Mr. Sands mentioned that when they first met, Mr. Turner removed a handkerchief from his sleeve to blot at the spilled wine.  How could I fail to recognize a military trait that you have so often pointed out in me?”

            “Wonderful, my dear doctor!  I thought you might have noticed that detail.”

            “I don’t understand.”  Mr. Sands looked between us, frowning.  “What do you mean, ‘military’?”

            I expected Holmes to launch into a detailed explanation of his deductive process, but he surprised me.  Stepping closer to the young man, he put one hand on his shoulder.  His expression softened.

            “You must not hold this against him, George, for if Mr. Turner has been untruthful with you, it is only because it was his duty,” Holmes told him gently.  “As the doctor has just said, from your very description of Mr. Turner, there were clues that he was no mere businessman.  Further, upon visiting his rooms, I detected a neatness quite distinctive to the military sort, as well as an empty case that had clearly once contained a service revolver.”

            “You’re saying that Mitchell is a soldier?” Mr. Sands asked, looking between us.

            “Oh, I would guess that he’s far more than a mere soldier.  You see, the final piece of this puzzle came when I made my inquiries in Bristol.  You may recall that I asked you if Mitchell might have travelled under another name, and you stated that you could not think of a reason why he would need to.  Thankfully, my contact in Bristol was able to supply me with information beyond what appeared on the passenger manifests.

            “Among the ships that departed on Wednesday was a freighter bound for the continent, though there was no record of it in the port logs.  It carried no registry, and submitted no cargo or passenger manifests.  Had he not seen it with his own eyes, my acquaintance told me, he would hardly have believed that it was real.  He remembered it especially because there was a bit of trouble just before the ship departed.  It seemed the captain was keen to be on his way, but an important passenger had not yet boarded.”

            “I daresay that the Army will be rather relieved to learn that their man is in a hospital in London, his orders safely with him, rather than on a steamer bound for Germany.”

            “Too right, Watson.”  Holmes turned his attention back to Mr. Sands, who still looked distinctly lost.  “It would seem that your Mr. Turner works for the Army in a more _unofficial_ capacity.”

            He studied Mr. Turner’s face for a long moment.  “A spy?”

            “Perhaps.  It’s hardly our place to know.”  Holmes slid the packet he’d retrieved from the lining of Mr. Turner’s coat into his own pocket.  “I shall, however, see that this is returned to the proper persons, along with a message informing them of Mr. Turner’s whereabouts.  You should understand, George, that they will likely come and remove him from this place.  A man like him is likely considered a valuable commodity, not to be left lying about.”

            Mr. Sands stood and straightened his jacket.  There was a firmness in his manner that I’d not seen before.  It suited him.

             “Well then, Mr. Holmes,” he said.  “I will thank you to take your time.”

            Holmes smiled slyly.  “We shall see, Lord Sands.  After my exertions of the past few days, a bit of leisure appeals to me.  I think I will retire to my rooms for the afternoon, and I may not emerge before tomorrow.  The day after, at the latest.”

            Nodding, Mr. Sands held out his hand.  “You have my gratitude, Mr. Holmes.  If there was something beyond gratitude, you would have that as well.  I can’t tell you…”

            “There is no need,” Holmes shook his hand.

            “What will you say, if these ‘proper persons’ should ask how it was that you came to find Mitchell?”

            “I don’t see how they would find that information relevant.  This is not the sort of tale for telling.  I think it best if this entire affair remains between the three of us.  Four, if you should care to explain to Mr. Turner when he awakes.”  Holmes turned to me then.  “Don’t you agree, Watson?”

            “Of course.”

            We took our leave of Mr. Sands then.  Holmes began to hum to himself as we exited the hospital and when we stepped out into the warm afternoon, he set off on foot rather than summon a cab.  I fell in beside him, though I struggled to keep up with his long stride.  We walked for a long time without speaking.   We were passing through a small park when Holmes roused himself at last.

            “Summer is coming,” he said.  “You can smell it in the air on days like this.  You always preferred summer, didn’t you, Watson?”

            “I suppose so.  The warm weather agrees with me.”  It seemed foolish that we were talking about the weather, after everything that had happened in the past few days.  “May I ask a question?”

            “Always, my dear doctor.  Always.”

            “What do you intend to do about Kroft?”

            “Ah, Mr. Kroft…” Holmes folded his hands behind him, a faint smile curving his lips.  “I don’t _intend_ to do anything.  It is done.  Last night after I left the club, I visited some less-reputable associates of mine.  They in turn visited Mr. Kroft, and impressed upon him that it would be in his best interests to leave England immediately.  He found himself aboard a ship early this morning, bound for Africa, I believe.”

            “And should he attempt to return, can I guess that he might fall victim to some sort of accident at sea?”

            “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Watson.”

            “Oh, of course not, Holmes.”

            We walked for a while longer in silence.  It was a truly lovely day, warm and bright.  A slight breeze stirred the trees overhead and lifted the scent of newly opened daffodils from somewhere nearby.  We had reached a turn in the path when Holmes abruptly stopped walking.  He turned to the hedgerow that grew along one side, green buds of new leaves just beginning to show.  I waited for him.

            “Did you read it, Watson?”

            “What?”

            “The rest of George’s letter.”

            I felt my face growing hot, but Holmes did not look at me.

            “You did.  Tell me, was it as eloquently worded as the first page?”

            “I…”  It was on the tip of my tongue to dismiss the question, to point out that it hardly mattered in the greater scheme of the case.  Recalling our conversation the night before, I could not.  “Yes.  It was…beautiful.”

            Holmes reached out to touch one of the tiny green leaves, unfurling it gently with the tip of his finger.  “Then our Mr. Turner is a very lucky man.”

            “I think they both may be,” I said.

            “Oh, indeed?”

            “Yes.  It’s a terrible thing to think oneself alone in the world.  They are lucky to have each other.  And lucky to have you.”

            Holmes’s gaze was searching as he turned back to face me.  I forced myself to meet his examination without looking away.

            “It is position I have found myself in, many times.”

            “Watson…”

            “We both know it’s true, Holmes.  I may be married now, and no longer live in my rooms at 221B, but I am still deeply grateful that you are part of my life.  You are, and always will be.”

            I may have wanted to say more.  Many years from that day, perhaps I would be able to form the words.  Words that would make George’s letter seem shallow and childish by comparison.  But I did not speak them then, and I never would.

            Holmes never had any need for my words, regardless.  He inclined his head slightly toward me and set off once more down the path.  The pace he set now was more sedate, allowing me to easily walk beside him.  Right where I belonged.

 

 The End


End file.
